Anxiety about getting anxiety
You want an honest-to-goodness assessment of what my weekend was like?
It was absolutely retched.
And it’s entirely my own fault.
Friday night after coming home from Indy and passing out in bed for a quick nap, Clay and I headed out to the grocery store to buy food for the upcoming weekend. Napping in the middle of the day/early evening usually makes me feel slightly nauseous, but on Friday I was too sleepy to care about the consequences. So I wandered around the grocery store feeling a little sick and needing a glass of water, but I ignored the feeling until I could get home and put some food in my stomach. However, after eating some soup and drinking a homemade smoothie, I started to get an overwhelming sense of fullness in my belly. I was so uncomfortable I could barely sit still and I ended up pacing the living room, hoping I could encourage my stomach to digest faster. I had no idea what brought on the pressure in my stomach because I really didn’t eat that much, but not being able to get comfortable triggered the worst panic attack I’ve ever had in my entire life.
I’ve had anxiety attacks in the past, but they usually require nothing more than a few minutes of Clayton rubbing my back to calm me down. But this was different. This was horrible. I convulsed and shook for hours … literally, hours. I was so sick of the pressure rising in my stomach that I thought I needed to throw up and I actually ended up dry heaving several times. Ugh, it was awful.
After a few hours of crying and shaking, I was begging Clayton to take me to the hospital. Why? I don’t know. I figured they had some good drugs over there that could slow my heart rate and relax my body since I was clearly failing at doing that myself. Clayton refused, insisting I didn’t need to go to the emergency room and that I just needed to lie down.
He gave me a Tylenol PM and I laid on the living room floor watching Shipping Wars on the Discovery Channel and zoning in and out of stress dreams about Twitter (weird, right?) until about 5:30 a.m. when Clay finally drug me upstairs.
I cannot even begin to describe how traumatic that whole ordeal was. And I did it to myself … for no real reason. My stomach felt so uneasy that I convinced myself I needed to throw up and triggered an anxiety attack. In retrospect, it’s so lame and pathetic, but at the time I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I legitimately thought I wasn’t going to make it through the night. When you’re experiencing anxiety, there is no such thing as logic. Your stressors don’t even have to make sense.
And I paid for that anxiety attack for the rest of the weekend. The dry heaving wreaked havoc on my muscles and my back, shoulders and neck were too sore to move the next morning. My heart rate was elevated for long that it hurt to breathe. My stomach was queasy and pissed off at me, so it got its revenge by giving me absolutely no appetite for the next two days. Over the course of the weekend I ate 2 bagels and that was it. I tried to run on Sunday afternoon, but my 6 miles were painful and slow because I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in almost 36 hours.
I was a mess.
So guess what? Now I have anxiety about getting anxiety.
Your mind is a powerful thing and I was so focused on feeling sick and uncomfortable, that I continued to feel that way. You can most definitely make yourself by just thinking about it. And that’s exactly what I did. And I ended up ruining not only my weekend, but my husband’s too because he stayed awake with me and took me on a drive at 3:00 a.m. on Friday night to see if that would distract me. He’s an angel, but I put him through hell. So on top of being ashamed and embarrassed of what I did to myself, I feel guilty for raking Clayton through it, too.
Has something like that ever happened to any of you? What did you do to cope with it? What can I do to prevent it from happening again? I’m scared that I have the capability of doing something like that to myself.
Remember how I talked about needing to meditate? Yeah.
Someone please leave a comment reassuring me that at least someone out there had a good weekend.